


A Wound, a Placebo, a Cure

by aibidil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Kissing, Explicit Consent, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Kiss Consent, M/M, Pensieves, Placebo - Freeform, doc martens, portrait snape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aibidil/pseuds/aibidil
Summary: Draco is full of teenage angst during his eighth year, and someone wants to cheer him up.





	A Wound, a Placebo, a Cure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frnklymrshnkly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frnklymrshnkly/gifts).



> Much thanks to **zeitgeistic** for betaing. With love to **frnklymrshnkly** , who is an awesome cheerleader and the best type of pal, stanning with me over the OTPs, Drarry and Karldrich.

Draco walks quickly out of the Eighth Year common room, stealing another glance at the parchment in his hand. Once again, the handwriting has changed; it is Charmed to disguise the writer’s identity.

> _Malfoy, Come alone to the abandoned classroom in the Charms corridor tonight at 10pm. It’s safe—I have something to cheer you up._

He is probably an idiot for actually going. He has no idea who sent this, and there are plenty of people at Hogwarts who want revenge for his actions during the war. He just has a feeling that he can’t ignore it. Perhaps it’s his competitive nature; he can never back down from a challenge.

Although he hasn’t felt that way for awhile now.

The eighth years are allowed in the castle after curfew. Draco can’t help but think how strange it feels to be out at this time but not attempting shoddy Disillusionments or Silencing Charms, not worried about encountering Peeves or Filch. Although, in honesty, he still doesn’t care to run into Peeves or Filch.

He feels a sense of apprehension, but also anticipation. Is this mysterious letter writer really trying to cheer him up? But even if they’re lying, at least it will be something to do. Even a duel in an abandoned classroom sounds exciting compared to the pitifully lonely existence he’s had so far this year.

He turns into the Charms corridor and approaches the abandoned classroom. He looks behind him, confirming that no one is there, takes a steadying breath, and opens the door.

The room is empty save for a stone basin on a desk surrounded by a shimmering and enticing glow. A Pensieve.

He walks into the room, jumping a bit as the door slams shut behind him. He looks around warily, but no one is there.

He peers curiously into the Pensieve; this must be what the mystery person thought would cheer him up. 

But what memory could really cheer him up? The things that used to bring him joy, like stomping on Potter’s dumb face in the train or teasing people mercilessly, make his stomach roil now. He had been such an arse, and now he is so overwhelmingly glad that the Dark Lord is dead that thinking of his pre-war actions makes him feel a bit ill. 

And if it’s memories of the war, he will probably actually vomit right into the basin. 

He stares at the swirling silvery substance, unsure how to proceed. He’s nervous about what it could be, but he also doesn’t think he can just leave the room.

“Oh, just stick your head in already,” a voice sneers. “You’ve always been a supremely nosy child, there’s no sense trying to change that now.”

Draco jumps, his hand on his chest, head whipping from side to side, but the room is still empty.

Then he spots him—Severus—in a frame on the wall. Severus doesn’t belong in that frame, and he looks preposterous. It’s a painting of a group of mermaids on a sunny day, and Severus (who had been painted in a much darker and more sombre palette) seems strangely pasted in, like somehow the sunshine couldn’t reach his greasy hair and hooked nose. 

And actually, that is quite apt, Draco thinks, and smiles. He hadn’t met Severus’s portrait yet—he’d been loathe to ask McGonagall for the use of her office. 

“Salazar, you startled me,” Draco says.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” Severus says, pointing at the Pensieve, as a mermaid with long blonde hair playfully spits a stream of water into the air. But then Severus’s gouache eyes glance over Draco’s body and he sneers, “Are you wearing eyeliner? _What_ are those boots? Merlin help me, how long have I been dead?”

Draco rolls his eyes at the overreaction but can’t help a fond smile. “They’re Muggle,” Draco says with relish, watching as Severus’s nose wrinkles—and that, that wrinkle right there, is why he bought these boots and the eyeliner. “They’re called Doc Martens.”

“I know what Doc Martens are,” Severus hisses, “I grew up in Cokeworth, you dimwit. I meant, why are _you_ wearing them? Do you listen to the Smiths now?” He narrows his eyes. “Do you also have a Bauhaus t-shirt? What is the meaning of this?”

“I can’t—” Draco stops, unsure how to explain. “I can’t do what’s expected of me, anymore.”

Severus doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that. He looks at Draco for a long moment, nods, and then turns to look at two snogging mermaids.

“I—I’ve missed you,” Draco stammers, feeling supremely wrongfooted. “Did you write the letter?”

Severus graces him with a look usually reserved for Gryffindors and people who try to slice sopophorous beans. “Even with my considerable magical talent, as a sentient portrait, I am _confined_ to _portraits_.”

Draco sighs, looking again at the Pensieve. 

“He’s not trying to hurt you,” Severus says. “He’s unbearably altruistic, as expected. Well, maybe it’s not technically altruism if he has ulterior motives. But for certain he’s not trying to hurt you.”

“He—who?!” Draco cries, eyes scanning the room again.

“Perhaps I ought to reconsider my assessment of your intelligence, if you can’t figure that out,” Severus challenges.

Draco has no idea what Severus is talking about, but it’s his experience that portraits tend to be a bit batty, so he dismisses it and plunges his head into the silvery substance in the basin.

It’s a strange memory. He blinks, trying to orient himself. He’s looking straight at a screen, like one of those Muggle tellies. It’s showing a stage in a crowded hall of people, and on the stage is a band. The frontman is wearing a dress and has dark eyeliner smudged around his eyes, the hair hanging in his eyes completing a thoroughly androgynous look. 

“Sucker love is heaven sent, You pucker up our passion's spent, My heart’s a tart your body's rent, My body's broken yours is bent.”

What the fuck is this, Draco thinks, mesmerised as the bodies in the audience grind and jump and kiss and the musicians on the stage sing and play their guitars and just look so bloody sexy.

“Sucker love is known to swing, Prone to cling and waste these things, Pucker up for heaven’s sake, There's never been so much at stake.”

Draco watches in awe, enjoying the insistent beat, until the song ends. The memory swirls, and now he’s listening to a fast guitar riff and looking at a likeness of a torso sticking out of a bed of nails.

What the _fuck._ Draco smiles, bewildered.

The same man is back on the screen, only this time there’s something bizarre going on that seems to be magicked, not real life, making his face morph, and he’s singing, “Alcoholic kind of mood, Lose my clothes, Lose my lube.”

Draco laughs—actually laughs, and when was the last time that had happened? This music is great and kind of disturbing and his parents would hate it and he wants to get one of those leather shirts that tall blond bloke is wearing and go to a club and dance and dance.

He pulls his head out of the Pensieve, grinning like a lunatic. “What the fuck, Severus? Who left this for me?”

Severus raises one dark eyebrow, the sunshine of the rest of the painting causing the mermaids to shade their eyes with their hands, but Severus is protected by his permanent shade. “I thought the fact that you managed to survive the war meant that your powers of deduction were a bit better than that, Draco.”

“What?” Draco says, looking around the empty room again. “Tell me!”

“Can you think of no one who always notices you? Who frowns when you leave the Great Hall without eating? Who sits next to you in Transfiguration?”

“Wha—have you been following me all year?” 

Severus shrugs, unconcerned. “A portrait must avail themselves of all methods of entertainment.”

“But I—” Draco starts, and then it all clicks into place. This ridiculous Muggle band. Wanting to cheer him up, which, of course, implies having noticed that Draco has not been cheery. The desk in Transfiguration.

“Severus, I’ll find you later, I need to—” He starts to walk from the room.

But Severus chuckles and interrupts. “Where do you think he is, Draco? You _are_ smart, somewhere beneath all that eyeliner and teenage angst. Surely you can figure it out.”

Draco stops, looks at Severus. Severus raises both eyebrows in that same manner he used to when Draco was nearly about to solve a tricky Potions puzzle.

Draco raises his wand. “ _Accio_ Invisibility Cloak.” He watches in fascination as Potter appears out of thin air and a cloak slams into his chest.

Draco is still smiling; he can’t stop. Potter, on the other hand, looks horrified—caught. He’s holding a record.

Draco walks towards him. “What’s that?” he asks.

Potter gulps. “It’s, er.” He holds it out. “I just thought you’d like this.”

Draco takes the record. It has a boy wearing a giant red jumper on it and says PLACEBO in the corner.

“Is this that band you put in the Pensieve?” Draco asks.

“Yeah. I mean, I would’ve just shown you on MTV but, doesn’t work in the castle. You just seemed so sad lately and—”

But Draco is done listening to Potter talk about sad things. Draco is done with the war and all that crap, too. It’s time to move on. He takes a step forward.

“So you made a memory of a man singing about losing his lube and thought, ‘You know, Draco would love this?’”

Potter laughs, and the sound is joyful. “Pretty much,” he admits.

“Does this band play live, Potter?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Let’s get tickets.”

“You—want to? With me?” Potter splutters.

Draco grins. “I want to...with you.”

Potter’s eyes go comically wide and Draco watches as they drop to his lips. Potter’s cheeks are red and he is breathing shallowly. 

“Can I kiss you?” Potter whispers, and it’s the sexiest thing Draco has ever heard. _Harry Potter wants to kiss him. Harry Potter noticed him._ “I can’t stop thinking about you in this eyeliner and Doc Martens,” Harry elaborates with a lopsided smile.

Draco’s grin widens. He doesn’t answer with words, but leans forward and grabs Harry’s face with his hands. They are kissing, and it’s brilliant, and Draco hears the record fall to the floor, the beat of the music still sounding in his head. 

He pulls away, his lips ghosting over Harry’s. “Let’s go somewhere else. Severus is with the mermaids.”

“That sounds like a ridiculous code phrase,” Harry says, grinning.

Draco retrieves the record and pulls Harry from the room.

**Author's Note:**

> The videos Draco watches in the Pensieve can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMaycNcPsHI) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PBxuq_eWW94).


End file.
